


like a light left on by an angel

by jfk



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-25
Updated: 2011-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jfk/pseuds/jfk





	like a light left on by an angel

"Putting on weight again, Mycroft?" The evening is almost as cold as the way Sherlock's looking at him, and not nearly as sheer as the way he's speaking. It would hurt, if Mycroft wasn't used to it. For a second, he feels peaky and blinks once, twice. 

 

From across the gravel, he can feel the Inspector's gaze fixed onto him. It's a smile, but hidden into his collar. Like a secret. 

 

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft wills Sherlock to be wrong, or to look away. The scrutiny makes him wonder if Sherlock already knows: if he's toying with his brother, circling him with angry eyes. The sickness is rising, a guilty mouse nibbling at his insides. Those eyes don't linger, they fall upon the blonde man and soften, for a second. The Inspector is in the midst of a conversation now.

 

"He's your brother?" The smaller man casts an eye over Mycroft. Behind his eyes, cogs are working, wheels are grinding. John is a medical man, and they'll have to accept if he figures it out. But Mycroft can wish and hope and pray that he doesn't. 

 

"Of course he's my brother," The conversation is lasting too long for his liking. After all, he only came to see his Inspector. Sherlock's been doing his best to monopolize Lestrade, and it's getting tiresome. 

 

It takes two hours before Lestrade can leave, and he's bringing his paperwork home anyway. They don't speak, for there's nothing to say, when they climb into the back of the car. The day has been incredibly long, and Mycroft can't settle his stomach from that fleeting rendezvous with his brother. 

 

"Okay?" Lestrade says, when he notices the consumptive pallor that his lover takes on when he's worried or sick. The concern is contagious, and now he's leaning forward, agitated. He'd seen Sherlock talking earlier and wondered: did he know? Had John been able to tell?

 

"A little nauseous, that's all," He confirms. Somebody has to ask, or say, and it may as well be Lestrade. 

 

"You don't think he-"

 

"No," Mycroft breaks down into a grin, and lean his head slightly on Lestrade, who moves toward the contact, and steals a hand. They're perfect like this, in the moments nobody ever sees, and therefore nobody ever understands. You can see it, though, if you squint. Through the overuse of nods and glances and 'sirs' for the sake of others. "We'll have to tell them sometime," 

 

Lestrade shrugs. "Bit later out the gate, though," And to assuage any fears that Mycroft might carry on his back, he adds, "Yeah?"

 

"Mm. Yes," Mycroft yawns, comfortably sleepy, and adjusts himself better on Lestrade's shoulder. Something like this, something good and real can work, and it will. They've been like this for quite some time, and while neither would want to be the first call it 'serious' or 'long-term', it is, and it's the closest thing to love. They share a bed, share a townhouse, share eachother. "Love you," All eyes are closed. The night is morphing into morning. 

 

"Love you too," Lestrade whispers into the copper hair. "Both of you," 

 

-

 

The sickness isn't the worst part of Mycroft's day. Lestrade insists every morning that they stay in bed together, and that Mycroft shouldn't be worrying, shouldn't be working when he's sick and tired and snaps so easily. Of course, he only snaps easily because he's sick, and not much can be done about either. 

 

"Bad day?" Lestrade asks when Mycroft comes home flustered and grimacing. It happens more than once, and it's frustrating because it's having an effect on the way Mycroft treats people, and treats himself. Lestrade isn't going to let something nasty come of it. 

 

It's past eleven at night, and Mycroft still isn't home, so Lestrade does the honourable thing and calls him. He's been awake all night, sleepless with a very real fear that stress with tear them apart. 

 

"Too late for coffee?" And even though Mycroft can't drink coffee, they both know what he means. 

 

"Please," 

 

"I'll be with you in ten,"

 

They stay up later and talk, and touch, and even laugh. It feels like they've been falling through the motions for ages, and it's what they both need. As of late, things had been strange, and Lestrade had felt barely a vapour of a man. The coffee and conversation gave him enough weight to think clearly. 

 

It must have been nearly morning when they left. It was never too late, or early, for coffee. They walk home peacefully tired, silent in the glow, one behind the other. Mycroft strode first, because Lestrade would always follow him into the dark. 

 

-

 

They spend way too many hours in bed after that. 

 

Mycroft doesn't want to move, he's far too comfortable in the duvet to ever dream of leaving, it's far too calm and quiet. The sickness is fading, but something new has arisen. Maybe worse, he's not sure yet. 

 

"Not going to get dressed yet?" Lestrade is fresh from the shower, face flushes, rivulets of clear water falling down his face, and around his body. It takes Mycroft back to that tumble they'd shared in the back of a car but about a month back. He smiles, and it's too big for his face. So big that he could flip and shelter from the rain beneath it. 

 

"Everything's a little-" And he blushes a bit, the pink meeting the dun of the freckles. "-tighter, now," Gentle as ever, Lestrade takes a seat on the edge of the mattress and takes Mycroft's lips like he did those weeks ago, in the glooming. 

 

"I like you better with a little more round the edges,"It's an important thing to hear from Lestrade, and Mycroft feels at ease, because he's never been really happy. Thin or otherwise, they're always something wrong. And he may as well get comfortable because he'll only get bigger. 

 

Stretching out, Mycroft smiles his simian smile. 

 

"You don't have to be at the office until eleven," He says, tasting the words in his mouth, savouring them. Lestrade gets this dirty look in his eyes that says yes in a thousand different ways. 

 

He drops the towel and lifts the duvet. 

 

And calls in sick about an hour later. 

 

-

 

The first scan they attend together is at twelve weeks, and it's quite something. Mycroft isn't sure what to expect at all, he's been busy, and he's been worrying away in his head. At every spare moment Lestrade has been at it, bookmarking pages left, right and centre. He says that the baby's heart is beating at twice Mycroft's rate, and hat it responds to touch, even if they can't feel it yet. 

 

Part of that makes Mycroft excited and giddy. And part of him feels very sick. 

 

Everyone is smiling and supportive at the hospital. They ask personal questions and Lestrade sits close. If he wasn't there, Mycroft would have been rendered speechless, blown away by the feeling of reality that was dawning on him. Before, it was like starring in a film: things were light-hearted and fun. Now, though, it's frightening. 

 

The obscure of black on white on-screen forces them both to take a second. It's really incredible.  He's never really considered it before, but there's a life, it's real and it's there. Something that might have Lestrade's eyes, or his hair. 

 

"Let's hope it has your nose," Mycroft says to break the silence. In truth, he doesn't care if the child does or not, providing that it's healthy and he'll get to meet it. 

 

For days afterwards, that's all he's thinking about, and so it Lestrade, who had begun to budget on scraps of paper. It's where the class difference makes itself apparent: Mycroft will want to absolutely spoil the child, and Lestrade will want to be economical, and stern. They'll argue, no doubt, But they aren't' now. 

 

"I'd like a girl," Lestrade says. "She'd have your eyes," He strokes a hand over Mycroft's face, and he looks right into them, right through them. The hand moves to Mycroft's stomach. There's little there, but it's what's in Lestrade's head that really matters. "A little Anna Lestrade," Mycroft scoffs. 

 

"Holmes, I think you'll find." Lestrade raises his eyebrows. "I'm carrying the child," Matter-of-factly, he points it out. "And definitely not Anna, far too common. What about Summer Holmes?" The due date is in August, it would make sense. 

 

Lestrade isn't that impressed, he moves on quickly. "And if it's a boy?" For a second, they're both off, in thought, faces wrinkled like slander. 

 

"Daniel," Lestrade tests the waters. 

 

"Daniel Holmes is a window-cleaner," Mycroft interjects, shaking his head. Silence falls for another few seconds. 

 

"Vincent?"

 

"Vincent Holmes is a criminal mastermind," Quickly, Mycroft dismisses it. Flustered, Lestrade tries again. 

 

"Charlie," Mycroft goes to comment, but stops. His face works itself from snare to a smile. He nods. 

 

"Charlie Holmes is a honest man," He rubs his belly thoughtfully, "Or so we hope," 

 

Lestrade has champagne to celebrate. It's sugar-sweet and bright, the bubbles fizzing away on his tongue and it tastes like he feels. 

 

-

 

One of the scariest moments, of course, is telling people. Mycroft likes it as a secret, insists upon it because things don't seem as real. Secrets are often fiction. They both suppose in the end that there's no use in hiding it, Mycroft has a definite bump, even in his looser clothing. This is both good and bad.

 

He puts it off until Lestrade confronts him about it. 

 

"You're unhappy?" He asks, naive, the worry apparent on the volume of his face. 

 

"Of course not," Mycroft says, but he's lying. "You can tell them," In the middle of Scotland Yard, where Sherlock is ransacking Lestrade's drawers for a bit of paperwork with his army doctor staring on wearily.  Everything is going in fats motion, and it's like Mycroft is falling down a rabbit hole. He doesn't feel well. 

 

What Lestrade doesn't say is that he doesn't want permission. He wants Mycroft to want to tell everyone. Yet, at the same time, he wants Mycroft to want what he wants. It's a terrible conundrum. Of course, he's used to those, and decides that permission is enough. 

 

He is going to make a big deal. 

 

"Excuse me," He said, using that voice that usually made the orderlies look up. Mycroft coughs awkwardly, feeling dizzier by the moment, and he can't control the swaying in his legs. Sherlock looks up, looks right through him with utter scorn. "I'd just like to let you all know that-" 

 

Mycroft vomits all over his shoes, and promptly faints. 

 

He wakes, some moments later in Lestrade's capable grasp, watching the fear swim over his face. The smell of bile rises in Mycroft's nose and he wants to gag, but it isn't too strong and a few of the more frenzied staff are fanning at him with bits of paper. 

 

Sherlock knows. He's at the back of the room, looking over with minimal concern, but even the smallest bit is better than none. His arms are folded and he's trying not to look, but his gaze catches. And when it catches, it returns. 

 

"Sorry," He says, because honestly, he is. The moment is gone, vanished, slipped through their fingers like liquid sunshine and now he supposes that everyone knows. 

 

"So long as you're okay," Lestrade says, slowly, making sure that Mycroft can understand and blink correctly enough. For a second, they forget about the traffic of people watching and listening around them. They kiss, as they do in private, but publicly. And Lestrade is soft and warm, tastes like concern and coffee and cigarettes in the glow of a smile. 

 

All of a sudden, people have stopped their talking and typing and lives outside of watching the two. Everything stills, but not ominously, and when the kiss is over (far too quickly, scandal!) Lestrade can't really meet the eyes of any of his employees without wanting to blush. 

 

"Sorry," Mycroft says again. Lestrade laughs, helping him to stand, careful and full of gentle touches. 

 

"So you should be," Lestrade teases, "You're turning me into such a slut," 

 

-

 

At eighteen weeks, Mycroft gets breathless more often. 

 

The sickness passes and the migraines start, until all he can do is sleep for about four days, a concerned lover curled on on him, making them both look like two sides of the yin and yang. It's normal, he's assured, and the best thing for it is water and good food.

 

And after that, work begins in the spare room. 

 

To begin with, the smell of paint rouses Mycroft and he pokes his head into the room where it's coming from. Lestrade is singing, if you don't mind, with hand on the stepladder. The other is coating the wall in stark white. He's only about a foot off the ground but Mycroft doesn't want to scare him and knocks quietly on the door. 

 

Lestrade continues to sing, rather contentedly, and Mycroft coughs, for attention. Then again. Obviously, he isn't being forward enough. 

 

"Geoff!" He says, flustered, feeling that slight headache creeping back into his ears. The ladder creaks as Lestrade flinches, dropping the paintbrush in a dollop of white on wood. 

 

"Sorry, love," Lestrade says, sheepishly, dismounting and wiping his hands on a dust sheet. Curious, Mycroft looks around and takes him time. There are more tins of white in the corner, and the spare mattress is out in the hall. He doesn't say what he's thinking, because he thinks it's far too early to begin making the room. If it were up to him, they'd wait. 

 

But he's not going to tell Lestrade that. 

 

"You've started early," He says, instead. Lestrade knows that tone. 

 

"I'll start colouring when we find out the sex," He looks up carefully. 

 

"If," Mycroft retorts, quickly. They stare, for a moment. 

 

"You don't want to-"

 

"I don't know if I want to-"

 

"Yeah, but I want to-"

 

"-find out?" Mycroft goes to the stepladder and sits, picking up the paintbrush. He twists it absent-mindedly in his hand. It's obvious he's thinking about it, and he isn't convinced, so Lestrade steps up to make an argument. 

 

"You don't want to know if it's going to be a Charlie Holmes? Or a Summer Lestrad-"

 

"Holmes," Mycroft laughs, sharp as ever. He still looks undecided. "Aren't you-" He swallows, and Lestrade kneels by his side,. worried. "I mean, aren't you even a little anxious?" Perhaps it's the headaches talking, perhaps it's Mycroft, but Lestrade cannot sympathize. His thoughts have been purely romantic, purely optimistic, and he can't think to fault that. 

 

"About what?" He asks, gently, so as not to corner Mycroft. With a shrug, Mycroft sighs. 

 

"I don't know. What if there are complications? I was very sick as a child, and if that's the case then I won't sleep until I know-" He stops when he sees Lestrade erupt into laughter, and ignores the painful flare one receives upon having their pride wounded. "What?" Mycroft snaps, sourly. 

 

"We're going to be fine," Snaking an arm around Mycroft, he let's it settle on the soft skin of the abdomen. "Mmkay?" He's seen pregnant women who've been shoved down staircases, who've smoked weed by the mattress-load and have had perfectly healthy children (put into care). He's not phased by the same as Mycroft. 

 

"Trust me," Lestrade says, so he does. 

 

-

 

At twenty-two weeks, Mycroft gets more optimistic. 

 

He can, sadly, no longer wear anything that previously fit and has lost the taste for coffee when he lost the ability to button his shirts. It doesn't bother him like it does others, because Lestrade loves him regardless. And, after an answer from their doctor, has been proving it rather nicely in the mornings. Mycroft smiles when he thinks about it. 

 

The latest news is all very exciting, and worrying. In a matter of months, they'll get to meet Alexander Holmes, the little one that's been keeping Mycroft awake at night. Lestrade is quite beside himself, and is forever buying things in blue, fiddling in the spare room. He wants everything to be perfect. 

 

And, for all for them, Mycroft is taking long walks in the afternoons, and reducing his hours at work. He eats well and doesn't touch anything that hints at alcohol. Lestrade has resisted cigarettes for five weeks. 

 

They shower together before Lestrade must work, toothpaste kisses and broad easy touches (with something very cheeky against the tile). It's been too long since Mycroft was happy, really and truly happy. He can't stop smiling to himself, it's most absurd. Every day he works a little, and walks and reads. Mostly, though, he waits for Lestrade to return home. 

 

The shattering sound of keys on granite always means that Lestrade has arrived. 

 

At twenty-two weeks, he finds Mycroft in the sitting room, rather aptly sitting and reading. They greet with a soft kiss, and Lestrade positions himself behind Mycroft and turns on the television. He watches with his hands on Mycroft's tummy, wanting to feel something. 

 

"Bit quieter today," Mycroft says, not looking up from his book. Horribly quiet. Lestrade worries, but does not breath a word of his concern, lest Mycroft go off into a frenzy of panic. 

 

Even at dinner, Mycroft does not feel much movement, and comes to conclude that "He must be asleep,". They both pray it's true over the green lentils and silently strangle themselves with thoughts of a dead child. It's quite horrible. 

 

"Sleepy?" Lestrade asks before bed, thinking, hoping, tearing his soul up into little bits in the hopes that they all are: all 3 of them. And, if not, he's lost all hope for the existence of justice and may well find a bridge to leap from. 

 

It is, of course, in that moment, where Mycroft gasps, and smiles. 

 

"He must be waking up," And Lestrade's soul soars higher, the sensation travels to his eyes that ignite and burn in relief as he presses his hands against the small, reassuring thud of the baby's kick. Everything in that moment is okay. 

 

Mycroft hasn't the heart to mention the blood.

 

-

 

At twenty-four weeks, Mycroft gets furious. 

 

The first time Lestrade ever mentioned Kate, the receptionist, he didn't mind at all, because their relationship was new, and they were still enjoying those first incredible shags on a twice-daily basis. When Lestrade mentions her at twenty-three weeks, Mycroft begins to worry, because their relationship is being stretched because of the child, they've begun to have small wars on account of Mycroft's black moods and weepy moments. 

 

At twenty-four weeks, when Lestrade arrives home late, here's only one thing for it. 

 

The keys shatter onto the granite. Mycroft stays silent in the sitting room. 

 

"Mycroft?" His name is called out into the hall. It hangs in the silence like a light left on by an angel. Then, there are footsteps. Lestrade finds Mycroft and smiles wearily. "Hey, love," He says, going for a kiss. He misses, by a good foot and a half. 

 

"Where were you?" Mycroft is striving for a breezy tone, and his voice is strained, tried, put-on. He's standing, arms akimbo, and Lestrade is certain it's gong to turn ugly any minute now. 

 

"I had to sort through my desk to find an old search warrant, and then I was invited for a few drinks." Always be honest with Mycroft Holmes. He knows alot, and what escapes him for a second, he finds out. "If I'd known that you minded-"

 

"Who were you out with?" Lestrade laughs.

 

"The Constabulary, love, I wasn't-"

 

"Oh, really?" The tone is like a knives edge. Lestrade isn't having it. 

 

"Bloody hell, you're supposed to trust me! I haven't been holding your hand through every scan just to have a tryst with one of my Sargents." He protests. 

 

"Don't make this about Alex, Geoff, this has nothing to do with-"

 

"It has everything to do with this! I couldn't cheat on you while you're pregnant!" Lestrade takes a breath, and turn away, feeling in his jacket. "I need a cigarette,"

 

"You quit," Mycroft hisses, following him down the hall, fast as anyone that is twenty-four weeks gone and furious. 

 

"I'm having a cigarette," Repeating himself, Lestrade fumbles with his lighter, and evades Mycroft's swipes for it. 

 

"Fine," Sourly, Mycroft steps back, still full of paranoia and venom. "But you better not enjoy it."     Once lit, Lestrade takes a long drag on the cigarette and makes a contented noise, blowing the smoke from his mouth in s pleasured sigh.  

 

"That's goo-" Before Lestrade can finish, Mycroft slaps him, hard and vicious round the face. The force and brutal, and the skin turns pink. But by the time Lestrade had reacted, Mycroft isn't furious anymore. He's dangerously pale. 

 

"Something's wrong, Geoff," He says quietly. All eyes are ice. 

 

At twenty-four weeks, Mycroft loses the baby. 

 

-

 

There's nothing that could have been done. The tiny child asphyxiated on the cord, and no amount of laying differently, eating differently or fighting differently could have helped it. 

 

But that's not why Mycroft is silent. 

 

They give the couple a glance at the dead child, and he's so small, so tiny, little fingers curled up desperately, for want of life. Tiny eyes remain closed, ones that never saw the light of day. There is no movement, no breaths that premature lungs did take. No sound: cries, laughter, gurgling. The flesh is bluish and blotchy. The knees are still drawn to the chest, toes curled. 

 

The saddest part is how human the child looks. 

 

Mycroft cannot think but the reach and and feel his baby, expecting warm, soft flesh and a reaction. Expecting some kind of recognition from the child he carried. What he finds is cold, hard skin, and no sign of life in the little corpse. he cannot cry, his throat is sandpaper. Of course, he wants to. The man he is won't let him, but the man he wants to be, the father he wants to be, has died next to the lifeless child. 

 

It is not unlike the death of a stranger, and yet, it is the opposite. Lestrade isn't sure what to feel when he gazes upon the body. The first thing he thinks is of sorrow. When did his child, his little Alex, his future goalscorer become just a body? He didn't not know the child, and yet somehow, he did. Memories of scan, of a little heartbeat, of faints kicks are but fashions born in dead brains. The fever of a half-remembered dream. He simply sees a corpse, not feet that kicked, or hands that clenched, or a heat that beat, for the shortest of whiles. 

 

They don't speak to anyone, or to eachother. After all, there are only so many apologies a person can take, and at that moment, neither could take any more. 

 

The child is buried on a Sunday in the Parish of Henlow, a pretty village that Mycroft will not see often enough to upset him. The funeral is very intimate, with under ten people present to watch a shoebox of a coffin dissapear into the dirt. The words are irrelevant, not applicable to the body in the box. Nobody knew Alex Holmes, and nobody ever would. 

 

When the ceremony is over and they drive home in darkness, Mycroft manages a few tears in the back of the car. They have to be wrenched from his soul and fall silently down his face so as not to disturb Lestrade. But the tears only make him feel worse. 

 

Lestrade paints over the blue in the spare room, leaving it white with a mattress stranded in the middle of the dust sheets. For a few nights, he sleeps there, unable to look Mycroft in the eyes without wanting to sob. The pictures are burned, the toys are the clothes are given away, thrown away, never looked at again. 

 

The first thing Mycroft says is about two weeks after the funeral, where he's in the kitchen, looking out of the window. There is a family down the street. 

 

"I couldn't even cry," He says, absently. 

 

"You didn't have to," Lestrade comforts him, holds him close and upright when the wall comes down and Mycroft begins to sob, thumping his fiats and tearing up his paper heart. "I love you," He whispers. And he does. He loves Mycroft, and he loved Alexander, without ever knowing him. 

 

"I love you too," Mycroft's words catch from a tight throat, like a child's after too much weeping. "Both of you," 

 

-

 

After four years, some things have changed. Some things remain the same. 

 

There will always be a grave in Henlow Parish with a tiny headstone. It is forever decorated by Gomphrenas (the flower of immortal love) and white lilac (the flower of youthful innocence). Time may have been moved on, and may have healed old wounds, but the scars remain and both Mycroft and Lestrade will never forget.

 

They visit every fortnight together, mostly alone, just the two of them and a handful of memories. Of those who do not deserve to die, and those who have never lived. 

 

Sometimes they take Charlie, who is a two and a half old years old, and too young to understand. At the time, neither of them had felt ready for a child, but Mycroft would not let the opportunity pass.  Charlie is forever laughing, and he thinks he is something fierce, thinks he is ten feet tall. Lestrade thinks he's going to be a heart-breaker like his Mycroft, with the soft copper hair and the sweet sapphire eyes. He looks an awful lot like Mycroft, too, but acts much more like Lestrade. 

 

He says he wants to be a consulting detective. Uncle Sherlock has begun to train him. 

 

Charlie cannot speak very well. He manages 'l'ck' for Sherlock and 'don' for John. However, Charlie is very clever, and he knows the difference between 'Daddy' and 'Dad'. Charlie calls Mycroft' 'Daddy', and knows he can get away with murder. With 'Dad', though, Charlie is always better behaved.  

 

Also unplanned, and perhaps more potentially disastrous is Mycroft's current pregnancy, girls, and two of them. Lestrade has already begun work on the old storage room. It's pastel pink, and Mycroft burst into tears of joy when he first saw it. He's careful, mind, just like he was when carrying Charlie. They know that Alex is dead and gone, they still see his corpse in their nightmares sometimes, but the lesson remains. 

 

Lestrade doesn't smoke anymore. He doesn't drink champagne anymore, either, because it will never taste as sweet as it once did. 

 

Mycroft has learned trust the hard way. He learned how to cry, too. He's changed from the man he was to the father he wanted to be. 

 

"Come on," It's a Sunday that they visit Henlow, and Mycroft likes to take a picnic and take Charlie to the park. A fresh bouquet of white lilac sits next to the headstone. Lestrade and Charlie begin to walk back towards the church. Behind them, Mycroft follows, but he's slow with memories, and with carrying twins. 

 

Charlie runs off ahead, still in sight, and Lestrade walks slowly with Mycroft, arms around him, comforted by the feel of four little feet. 

 

"How're you feeling?" He asks, smiling as the boy in front continues to run. 

 

"Tired," Mycroft yawns honestly. He gets a kiss for his trouble. 

 

"Charlie wearing you out?" When he gets the nod, Lestrade laughs. "Charles Alexander Lestrade. Whatever made you change your mind?" He gets a playful slap on the forearm. 

 

"I was on morphine. You were lucky," They find a spot and settle, unfolding the blanket, giving Charlie lunch ('you have to eat your sandwiches, or not sweets'). They play 'I spy' while Lestrade gives Mycroft a soothing foortrub, and the game reveals how much Sherlock has influenced Charlie. Afterwards, Lestrade gets the football out, and Mycroft watches and cheers ambiguously until it begins to get dark and bedtime is looming. 

 

Mycroft calls up a car and they're driven home. Charlie falls asleep against him, grass-stains all up his legs. It's very silent. 

 

"Things'll be loud when the girls are born," Lestrade smiles, enjoying the peace, leaving tender little kisses on Mycroft's neck. It's how Charlie began, on a September night, similar kisses, something more devious on a hotel bed. 

 

"We'll manage," Replies Mycroft, cool and level. He looks tried, spent from a day of walking and watching and remembering. 

 

And they do. 


End file.
